“A. J. Ayer does it,” he said. “Logical Positivism.”
“Go on,” Frostick said.
“He’s Arsenal.”
Colin took his seat. He pushed his plate away. He certainly wasn’t going to eat chocolate mousse. He picked up his brimming glass and took a gulp of dessert wine. He did not notice the taste; it could have been water, or vodka. His throat was dry. Stewart Colman pushed the bottle down to him.
“Refill, Colin. Might as well. When in Rome et cetera.”
Colin noticed that Colman seemed relatively sober still. And Sylvia too; she sat with an expression both hunted and mutinous, which she had assumed as soon as she saw Frank’s white shoes and which the meal and the drinks had done nothing to alter. But then, he thought, for what I have to do next it would be as well if they were all drunk. He shifted his attention from his glass to find Charmian’s eyes fixed upon him. He lifted his head.
“Do you know,” she said distinctly, “he hasn’t got spondylitis?”
“I suspected as much,” Colin said.
“He said it because he thought it sounded clever. In fact it’s not an intellectual’s disease at all. I should think you might get it from carrying heavy weights.”
“I should think you might,” Colin said.
“In that case it surprises me that half the population of Africa hasn’t got it, from carrying things on their heads. It may be that they have. We do not comprehend,” she said, shaking her head, “we seldom take the time to try to comprehend, the sufferings of the Third World.”
At that moment there was a loud clatter just outside the room, and Elvie stood in the doorway holding by the hand a bald sandy-coloured man of about sixty, with moles and bristles on his shining scalp. He wore sagging twill trousers and a leather-patched jacket. The man’s mouth hung open, but it was difficult to tell whether he was inebriated, or meant to utter a greeting, given time. It was possible that this was the only member of the party for which the excuse could be made that, when sober, he appeared drunk. Locked together, he and Elvie staggered across the room towards the table.
Now Charmian displayed the first real sign of animation since her discomfiture over the squid. She sat bolt upright, her hands clasped.
“I say, Yarker. How clever of you, Yarker, to know that we wouldn’t get to pudding till midnight.”
“Pudding?” said Yarker. “No pudding, whisky for me.”
“Oh, you are tiresome, Yarker, we’ve finished all the whisky.”
“Eh?” said Yarker.
“S’right,” Frank said. “Colman here’s been mixing cocktails.”
“You say cocktails,” Toye put in, “but does anyone, I wonder, really know the derivation of the term, ‘cocktail’?”
His glass halfway to his lips, Colin glared at Colman. If Colman had been sampling his own product, his last hope of sane assistance had gone. Elvie had now resumed her seat, and as if in early confirmation of his fears, Colman rose from the table, lurched across to her, and pressed his mouth into her stout shoulder. Brian Frostick watched from under lowered eyelids. Gail Colman stared at her husband’s strange parti-coloured beard moving across the girl’s flesh like some small browsing animal; she pursed her mouth, and sat isolated in a moody silence, looking as if she were accustomed to this and had been waiting for it all evening. When Colman raised his head, a large half-moon of teethmarks could be seen above Elvie’s meaty left breast. Perhaps anaesthetised by alcohol, she had not made a sound. As Colman straightened up, Gail’s fingers crept across the table towards Colin’s untouched mousse; she stood up, drew back her arm, and with an Amazonian heave of her bosom lobbed the heavy glass dish at his head. It struck him a glancing blow, and a gelatinous mess slid down his shirt front. He swayed slightly, then stretched his arms wide and thrust his head forward, as if he were in the pillory. “More, more,” Edmund Toye cried. Her eyes narrowed, Gail Colman reached for the pepper-mill. Sylvia shot out of her chair in alarm.
“My God,” Colin roared, “you all know each other, don’t you? You do this regularly.”
“Let’s go,” Sylvia said to him.
“Soon. Soon as we can.”
“Can’t we go now?”
Above the general racket, something penetrated to them all simultaneously, a new noise in the room. It was a quiet snuffling, a sighing, a series of little squeaks. It emanated from Mrs. Toye, who now sat swaying in her chair, crying softly. Colman realigned himself with the table, stumbled back to it, and resumed his seat. He put his elbows into the debris of the food, and peered closely at Charmian.
“I say, pass the port,” Frank said. “It’s going the wrong way.”
“Shut up, Frank,” Frostick said, with no amiability. Charmian was fumbling for her handkerchief. She found it, then looked at it, bunched up in her fist, as if she did not know how it got there or what it was for. Her eyes had become dreamy and huge with tears, her mouth quivered, and her voice had broken down into a plaintive bleat.
“So delighted, so euphoric,” she said, “always the same when you’re pregnant, you don’t want to tell people, tempting fate, you know, not that I expected any trouble but you get that funny feeling and you can’t help worrying, but Edmund goes and tells everybody right away. He can’t contain himself, bursting with pride, well I think men are, don’t you?” Charmian, eyes glazing, addressed the empty air. “I mean it must seem so sentimental to you, I expect you get tired of people enthusing, but it really is so wonderful, absolutely the most wonderful thing in the world, I remember I absolutely melted when Jerome was put into my arms, and it was the same with Ariana so I know it works with girls too. Oh, and such an absolutely super super feeling, each one like a little miracle, each tiny perfect little finger—”
“She’s cracked up,” Frostick said.
“—and each tiny perfect toe.”
Charmian subsided into muffled sobs. The room fell quiet. Then suddenly Frank rose to his feet with a deafening clatter, slapping his palms down on the table; extending one arm, gripping the table with the other, he commenced a repertoire of humming and twanging which Colin took to be the sounds of an orchestra tuning up. Ambitiously extending both arms, he bellowed two lines:
“Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.”
“Can’t remember any more,” he said, and sat down abruptly. His whole body seemed to sag, and he made a soft snorting noise. His head lolled, and a trail of spittle ran down his chin. His body lurched over to the left side of his chair, and stayed there, leaning precariously over the arm.
“He’s had a seizure,” Sylvia cried, jumping to her feet.
Frostick looked at her with contempt and annoyance. “He’s pissed,” he said. “He’s had far more than we have. He drinks in the kitchen between courses. For God’s sake, sit down, woman, and give me the port if you don’t want any.”
Charmian was still crying, wiping her nose noisily from time to time. Colin knelt by Frank’s chair and took his pulse. He could not find it, but did not assume from this that Frank was dead; it was more a formality than a practical proceeding.
“Sylvia,” he said, “why don’t you take Charmian upstairs, and loosen her clothes, and get her to lie down for a few minutes?”
Sylvia dragged her eyes from Frank. “Right,” she said. She took Charmian firmly by the arms and raised her from her chair. Mrs. Toye suffered herself to be led from the room. Colin saw with admiration that, although Sylvia was trembling a little from the multiple shocks of the last ten minutes, her expression was firm and her gait quite steady.
“Upsy-daisy,” she said to Mrs. Toye, when they reached the bottom of the stairs. He heard her retrieve the tiny lady from a tumble, and set her on her feet again. “Up we go, there’s a good girl.”
And up they went. Colin surveyed the wreckage. Frank was still lolling half in and half out of his chair, one knuckle brushing the carpet. Colman and Frostick were mixing port with brandy. Gail Colman had resumed her sulk, and Elvie, whilst sitting bolt upright, appeared only semi-conscious.